


Drive Me Home

by RosellaC



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Honeymoon, Road Trips, Romance, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:05:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosellaC/pseuds/RosellaC
Summary: Cyril and Pam get married and take a cross-country road trip for their honeymoon, but there's plenty to derail them between New York and LA...





	1. New York

**Author's Note:**

> Writing about these two is my cocaine cupcake. I make no apologies. 
> 
> Set sometime between Season 6 and 7.

Pam can't remember a time when she couldn't drive.

She knows for sure she learned to drive the little red tractor before she learned to read, sitting on her daddy's lap and steering for him at first, flying solo once her legs grew long enough to reach the pedals. From there it was the big tractor, then the farm’s ancient pickup, and finally her very own car the summer she turned seventeen, a beat-up green Jeep she spent five years' worth of babysitting money on. It didn't have any fancy features, but it had four-wheel drive, working brakes, and a decent radio, and that's all she needed. When life got to be too much to handle, she'd drive for hours out into the country, wind tying knots in her hair and music blasting, until she felt calm enough to go back home.

Four wheels have always meant freedom to her, so when Cyril asks her what she wants to do for their honeymoon, her heart lifts the way it did the first time he kissed her, and she sings out "Road trip!"

"Road trip, really?" he says, skeptical. "I was thinking we could go to a nice resort or something, have a couple weeks to just lay around on the beach." His voice drops and his face lights up in the smile she knows so well by now, sweetly innocent on the surface but promising all kinds of delicious things underneath. “And in bed.”

"That'd be boring after a couple days, though! Not the bed part," she adds quickly. "Just sittin' on the same beach day after day. Wouldn't ya rather see somewhere different every day? Somethin' new? This country's so big and there's so much of it I haven't seen yet, and besides, we could stop off and see our families on the way since none of them are comin' to the wedding."

"True," he muses. "But we'd probably have to fly back afterward because it would take too long to drive both ways, and then I don't know how we'd get our car back to New York, and..."

He's forced to stop talking then because she's employed her favorite tactic to shut him up when needed, not that he tends to complain about it. She eventually lets him go, grinning at him. "Stop worryin' so much. This is supposed to be fun! We'll figure it out and make it work like we always do."

He can't say no to that logic, and when Malory announces later that week that she's decided to move the whole agency out to Los Angeles, well, that makes it a whole lot easier to say yes.

***

“I was thinking Fly Me To The Moon for our first dance – what do you think?” 

“Eh… that one’s nice, but I had somethin’ else in mind. It’s a country song.” He rolls his eyes and groans at her, but she knows he doesn’t really mean it; she wouldn’t call him a fan, not yet, but she’s gradually been introducing him to more and more country music and so far he hasn’t hated _too_ much of it. 

“Come on, just listen to it once,” she wheedles. “I think you’ll really like it! I promise if you hate it I’ll never mention it again.”

As soon as he listens to the lyrics, he goes quietly to pieces, and the tears in his eyes tell her beyond a doubt that she’s won this round.

***

The wedding itself goes by in a blur of emotion and champagne. They have it at the Tuntmore Towers Hotel, courtesy of Cheryl, who pulled a few strings as her wedding gift to them. Ray performs the actual ceremony, Archer provides the alcohol for the reception, and Malory – well, Malory shows up, so Cyril figures that’s about the best he could have hoped for from that quarter. 

"Holy shit," Archer says, watching Pam and Cyril sway together in their first dance, oblivious to anyone but each other, beaming like kids on Christmas morning. "I honestly thought they'd just decided to give up and settle for each other, but looking at them now… I think they might actually be in love. That's so _weird._ "

Lana slaps the back of his head and glares at him. "Don't be shitty! It's... OK, yeah, it's a _little_ weird, but it’s sweet. Just be happy for them."

"Jesus!” he grumbles, rubbing at his head. “Maybe when I recover from the concussion you just gave me. God _damn_ , Lana." 

“Will y’all kindly shut up? This song always gets me,” Ray sniffles, wiping away a tear. 

Cheryl rolls her eyes at him. “Oh, my God, be more stereotypical!” she whines, but then she lights up. “Hey, maybe later you could choke me a little? With your black guy robot hand?” 

Ray stares back at her, his hazel eyes communicating exactly what he thinks of that idea. “A, I’m gay. B, that is _not_ what that hand is for. C, your whole violence thing is creepy as shit, _especially_ at your supposed best friend’s wedding.” 

“But _we’re_ married! Remember?”

“Not a real thing,” Ray sighs in despair. “And even if it _were_ a real thing, my point stands.”

Krieger beckons Pam and Cyril over after they finish their dance. He’s flushed from the champagne and some suppressed excitement, his usual odd intensity turned up several notches. “You two are going to _love_ your wedding gift! I was going to surprise you with it, but I just couldn’t wait.” He giggles, which is not a sound they typically hear Krieger making, and it’s unsettling as hell. 

“Let me guess,” Pam says. “It’s our very own Virtual Girlfriend for weird-ass holographic threesomes.” 

Krieger’s face falls. “Well… it would have been if I’d thought of it. God _damn_ it!” He goes silent for a minute, clearly turning over the possibilities in his mind. “No, I set up a state-of-the-art video system in your honeymoon suite, so every second of your wedding night will be preserved for posterity.” He always takes such pride in his work, no matter what it is, and Cyril doesn’t have the heart to tell him exactly how goddamn disturbing his “gift” is. 

Fortunately, Lana’s seen Krieger talking to them, and she comes barreling over to intervene. “Krieger, why don’t you go play with the sound system? Now that they’re done with the first dance, we could use some more music.” Krieger trots off, happy to be needed, and Lana takes one look at Cyril’s shell-shocked face and laughs. “Don’t worry. I know what he did, and _my_ gift to you is that I’m gonna go in there right now and remove every single one of those cameras.” 

“Oh, God. Thank you.” Cyril heaves a sigh of relief that sounds like it comes up from his toes.

Pam catches Lana as she turns to leave. “Lana,” she whispers, wide-eyed, making sure Cyril doesn’t overhear. “Could ya… could ya maybe leave just one?” 

“ _Ugh._ ” 

***

"Alone at last." 

Lana's given the all-clear, the door's triple-locked behind them, the rest of the gang is safely occupied ten floors down, and there's nothing else keeping them from their wedding night. Cyril double-checks the locks again, just in case, and advances on Pam, who's busy unwrapping the gift left on the suite's dining table. 

"Hey, check this out – Lana must’ve brought it up! Malory and Ron gave us a crystal bar set, and they even filled it up for us already. That's so sweet of them!" She turns to Cyril, offering him a glass, but he just takes it from her gently and sets it down on the table. 

"Drinks can wait," he says, taking her by the waist. "I can't."

"Mmmm. A little eager to claim your marital rights?" She purrs at him, heavy-lidded and knowing, stepping into the circle of his arms. 

"I can't help it! You were the one who insisted we not have sex for the whole week before the wedding, and then sent me dirty Snapchats every day to tease me."

"Hey, I'm not plannin' to do this wedding thing ever again, so I wanted to do it right this time!" 

"So 'right' in this situation involves giving your husband a hopefully-not-permanent case of blue balls? Good to know." 

She swats him playfully. "'Right' involves savin' _something_ for the wedding night, and since that ship sailed a long-ass time ago, I had to improvise. And it's not like a week without sexin' you up was any picnic for me, either." 

"Well, we have all night to make up for it," he promises, just before his lips meet hers. "And then, our whole lives." 

"Bring it," she sighs into him. 

The kiss starts out sweet, but the force of their need for each other takes over fast, and he breaks away first, his breathing uneven. “I wanted to take it slow tonight, but I don’t think I can. Get over here.” Sitting down on one of the dining chairs, he pulls her roughly into his lap. She straddles him in a flurry of hiked-up skirts, and he growls as her hips roll hard against his. 

“God, I love it when you get all dominant with me,” she whispers, smiling, before he claims her mouth again. He cups her breast with one hand, cups her ass with the other, and decides undressing is a waste of time. She raises herself up just far enough to free his cock from the fabric it’s been straining against, and he pulls her panties aside just in time as she sinks down onto him. He’ll remember the sound she makes until the day he dies. 

“I can’t… _ah_ … be gentle right now,” he warns her, his fingers digging into her hips like she’s going to float away if he doesn’t hold her down. 

“Don’t care,” she pants between kisses. “Need you. Too much.” Her nails sting his shoulders as she moves with him, lifting, sinking, rolling as he thrusts up into her hard and fast. He loves that she’s no fragile flower; she’s strong enough to take anything he gives to her, and strong enough to take anything she wants from him.

“You’re so greedy for me, and I love it,” he breathes. “So hot. _God._ Look at you. You’re wet to the knees. You’re like every filthy dream I’ve ever had, all coming true.” When they got together, it didn’t take him long to realize how erotic she finds it when he talks to her during sex. He’s as articulate as ever, but the mellow red-wine richness of his voice shifts low and rough and there’s a smoke in it that she knows is for her alone. She told him once she could probably come just from listening to him read the phone book; he laughed at the time, but judging from her shudder and moan now, he thinks she might actually be right. He’ll have to test that out, at some point. He’s got better things to do right now. 

Her head’s thrown back now, giving him the opportunity to kiss his way down her throat as she gasps out a steady stream of _ohmygodfuckyesyesyesmoresogood_ , and it’s not long at all before his arms tighten around her and he brands her collarbone with a brutal, biting kiss as they shatter together. 

Flushed and panting, hair disheveled, heart pounding, she rests on him for a moment. When she recovers enough, she reaches up to brush away the lock of hair that always falls over his forehead, goofy smile on her face as she trails her hand down to rest on his cheek. “We’re _married_ ,” she says giddily. “Like, for real. I can’t believe it.” 

He returns the caress, smiling back at her. “Well, try to believe it, because it’s most certainly been consummated.” 

“ _Oh_ , yeah.” Smirking with satisfaction, she starts to climb off his lap, but she’s not used to wearing a dress like this, and her legs are still shaky from her orgasm. When he tries to stop her from falling they both end up on the floor, chair tipped over, laughing like crazy. 

“I can’t feel my legs!” she howls. He’s laughing too hard to reply, and he soon gives up trying to untangle them both from her skirts in favor of just collapsing on top of her. 

“God, how perfect is this?” he manages to get out, finally, tears in his eyes. 

“Right?” she agrees, still giggling. “Now please get me out of this fancy cupcake princess shit before I fall again and break my goddamn neck.” 

“Gladly,” he says, setting to work with a grin. 

***  
"You know what?" she muses. "I am _starvin'_. What do ya say we get some room service up in here?" 

"I’m up for that! What do you want?" 

She gazes at the ceiling, dreamily. "Oh, my God, the chocolate mousse here is bangin'. That’s what I want. And more champagne." 

“Chocolate mousse,” he says dryly. “You want chocolate mousse and champagne for dinner. You are _such_ a hedonist.”

“Damn straight. If I can’t have chocolate mousse and champagne for dinner on my wedding night, then when can I?” She sprawls back across the bed in total abandon, laughing at the expression on his face. Her robe falls open, and he frowns to see the red mark blooming where he'd sucked a bruise into her skin earlier. 

"I'm so sorry for that," he says, kissing it gently. 

"I'm not. I'm gonna wear a low necked shirt tomorrow and show it off. Maybe you can autograph it. 'Cyril was here.'" Shameless as always, she winks at him. "Besides, it's not the worst injury you've ever given me. Remember the time Cheryl made ya hit me in the gut?"

"God.” He winces, remembering. “I'd almost forgotten - you have no idea how awful I felt about that. But then you beat the shit out of me when you were trying to convince Malory to let you be a field agent, so I guess we're even?" 

"And I'm really sorry about that, too.” Her face turns serious for a moment. “I’m sorry for everything. I think I was kinda awful to you a lot of the time.” 

“Not _always_. I mean, you made fun of me sometimes, but you were the only one out of all of them who ever really stuck up for me. Like the time we went on strike, or when the Yakuza were shooting at us and you tackled me to get us under cover…” 

“Yeah! And you protected me, too! Like when you gave me your Kevlar in San Marcos and it saved me when Calderon shot me in the tits, and that time you took care of me when I was dyin’ of an allergic reaction, and…” 

“God, we’ve been through a lot of crazy shit together, haven’t we?” He shakes his head. “And I’m sorry for all the times I insulted you. Especially with that Bang, Marry, Kill thing - obviously I’ve revised my choice on _that_ one.” 

“Well, I gotta admit it was a bad picture,” she says, grinning again. “And… while we’re bein’ honest, I gotta admit that it was pretty hot when ya slammed me up against the snack machine and got all up in my face. Before ya hit me, anyway.” 

“You had a thing for me all the way back then?” He pulls her in close and nuzzles into her neck. “You know, there is something I never told you…” His face is buried in her skin, but she can hear the smile in his voice.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” 

“I do remember.” It takes her a minute to realize what he’s talking about, still tipsy from the champagne and distracted by his touch, but suddenly his teasing tone makes sense. Her eyes widen, and she swats him again. 

“Oh, my God! You _asshole!_ And I thought this whole time ya didn’t…” 

He’s laughing now, kissing her again and again. “That’s what gave me the idea in the first place, that night at your apartment. I remembered the first time – well, more of the second, actually. Not everything, just bits and pieces, but enough to know it would be worth it if you said yes.”

“And was it?” she asks, teasing him back. 

“More than I ever, ever could have dreamed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I heard this song on the radio while I was writing this story, and it seemed like it fit perfectly with how I wrote Cyril/Pam in Chocolate Therapy. So here's their [wedding dance song!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXDAYlhdkyg)


	2. Wisconsin

They’re somewhere in Ohio when the first fundamental incompatibility of their marriage raises its head. They’d originally agreed on letting the passenger pick the music, but Pam’s driving, and she can’t take it anymore. She hits the button to change the radio station, and Cyril, dozing in the passenger seat, jerks upright as smooth jazz turns into country. 

"Hey! I was listening to that!" he protests. 

"No, you weren't. You were sleepin', and if I listen to that music any longer I'm gonna be sleepin' too! I can't drive to that shit."

"Well, I'm not about to listen to country the whole way to California."

“I didn’t hear ya complainin’ about it when we danced to it at our wedding!”

“And I don’t hear _you_ complaining about jazz when I play it in the bedroom, do I?”

Pam glances over at Cyril; the stubborn look on his face somehow strikes her as hilarious, and when she starts laughing, he can't help but join her. 

"Oh, my God, can you say stupidest frickin’ fight ever!" she gasps, reaching for his hand.

"How about this?" he offers. "Driver gets to pick the music, so you don't fall asleep at the wheel." 

"I can live with that. And every day, we can each introduce the other one to some new stuff, so we can expand our musical horizons while we're drivin'." 

"I like that idea! By the end of this trip I'll get you thoroughly educated on jazz and blues." 

"And I'll school ya on some gangsta rap, and reggae, and some really random weirdo shit." She's grinning ear to ear now; she can't wait to see his face when she breaks out the Mclusky. 

He lifts her hand to his lips. "Look at us, compromising like grown-ups already." 

"We're gonna kick total ass at this marriage thing," she says triumphantly.

***

Pam’s full of happy chatter as they drive through Green Bay, pointing out all the places she remembers from growing up. Poovey Farms is about forty-five minutes outside town, she’s said, but Cyril knows well the pull of The Town for rural kids. It’s no surprise to him that Pam knows it like the back of her hand, even though she’s never lived there. 

“I can’t wait for you to meet my dad,” she says. “He’s gonna love you! He never thought I’d ever get married at all, so he’ll be extra happy.” 

“Why on earth did he think that?” Cyril’s willing to admit he might be slightly biased, but he can’t imagine why anyone who knows and loves Pam would assume she wouldn’t find _someone_. 

“Oh, who knows,” she shrugs. “Probably because I didn’t start goin’ steady with a farmboy at age fifteen and get engaged straight outta high school like everybody else in town did. I always wanted more. Didn’t wanna tie myself down early, not before I had a chance to go to college and see the world.” 

“Was that really so unusual?” 

Pam’s face tightens. “Well, Edie told me once that everybody in town thinks I’m a giant asshole for movin’ to New York, so I guess so.” 

“From what you’ve told me about her, I tend to doubt the accuracy of that statement.” He rolls his eyes. “I think she’s just jealous that you have such an exciting life. Working for an intelligence agency, traveling the world, and she’s… what did you say she does, again?”

She glances at him sideways, lips pressed together to contain her laughter. “You’re not gonna believe it. It’s too perfect.” 

“Come on,” he teases. “What does she do? Professional hog wrestler? Short bus driver? Owner of… I don’t know… one of those shitty little video stores that sells nothing but B-movies and pornos in the back?” Pam’s giggling now, and Cyril silently congratulates himself on distracting her from the mood she was about to slip into. “So? Which is it?”

“She works at…” She has to pause and catch her breath before continuing. “The DMV.” 

“Oh, my God!” he chuckles. “That _is_ perfect.” 

“I know, right? At least she doesn’t live with Dad, so we might get away with not havin' to see her while we’re here.” Pam crosses her fingers. “She is _not_ gonna be happy with me.”

“Because we didn’t invite her to our wedding?” 

“Not… exactly…” Her voice rises, taking on the sing-song tone that Cyril knows means she’s not telling him something. “More like… because I kinda ruined hers. Or at least she thinks I did.” 

“Oh, I think I heard about some of that from Archer. Wasn’t Barry involved somehow?” 

“Yeah. Frickin’ Barry.” Pam sighs. “I’ll tell ya the whole story sometime, but for now, let’s just say Edie’s probably lookin’ for revenge on me. I didn’t tell her I was comin’ to visit, but I’m sure Dad told her, so I don’t know what to expect.” 

Cyril squeezes her shoulder gently. “It’ll be okay. I’m sure she won’t be too awful to you, not with me here.” 

“It’s cute how ya think that’ll stop her,” she says. “ _I’ve_ got a mouth on me. Hers is worse.” But she leaves it at that, because the worn sign for Poovey Farms is coming up, and she’s home.

They’re down the long rutted driveway, and Pam doesn’t even bother to turn the car off before she’s out and running. Her sunlit hair streams out behind her as she sprints toward the farmhouse, and Cyril has a sudden vision of what she must have been like as a child, a wild little free-range thing. 

The front door opens and her father steps out, catching her in a bear hug as she flies up the steps. He’s not much taller than Pam, and more slightly built, but there’s a compact strength to him that speaks of a lifetime of hard work, and the way he’s beaming at his daughter tells Cyril exactly where Pam learned to wear her heart on her sleeve.

“Dad, this is Cyril. My husband.” Cyril doesn’t miss the way she emphasizes “husband,” and he’s touched to hear her pride in him. He shakes Mr. Poovey’s callused hand. 

“Very good to meet you,” he says, smiling. “Pam’s told me so much about you and the farm that I feel like I know you already.” 

“Call me Jim. Good to meet ya too, son. Come on in.” 

Pam excuses herself to get the suitcases out of the car, and Cyril seizes his opportunity as soon as she leaves. “Jim, now that we’re finally face-to-face, I wanted to apologize.” 

“For what? Ain’t done nothin’ wrong that I can see. Pammy’s over the moon about ya.” 

“Well, I get the sense you’re a traditional sort of man, and I wanted to apologize in case you were upset that I didn’t ask your blessing before I proposed. We arranged things in a bit of a hurry, but I want you to know I didn’t mean it as any kind of an insult.” 

The incredulous look on Jim’s face is the same one his daughter gets when Cyril says something boneheaded, and he barks out a laugh. “Son, if ya don’t know by now that my Pammy goes her own way and doesn’t ask or need anybody’s blessin’ on anythin’ she ever does, it’s time ya learned it. If she said yes to ya, that’s good enough for me.” 

“Oh, I most certainly do know it. It’s why I love her.” Cyril laughs, relieved; he hadn’t really expected Jim to make an issue out of it, but then again, he doesn’t have much experience with easygoing fathers. 

“Why’s that?” Pam bounces back in, grinning at both of them. “Because I’m awesome?”

Like a magnet, her smile pulls Cyril to her, and he can’t resist dropping a kiss on top of her head. “Yes, love. Because you’re awesome.” 

***

They spend the next day wandering all over the farm, Pam showing Cyril all the chores that make the place run smoothly, and within a couple of hours, he knows more about the dairy business than he’d ever known there was to know. Pam’s sheer energy has always impressed him, but here on her literal home turf, she’s unstoppable. He finally has to plead exhaustion, and she stops in her tracks to really look at him. 

“Aww, honey! I’m sorry – I forget not everybody’s used to the farm life. Come on. I know a place we can hang out for a while.” She leads him to the back of one of the fields, and through the bordering trees to a small clearing. It’s a sunny meadow, framed in woods and wildflowers, and at that moment he thinks he’s never seen anything so inviting. He drops down full-length into the grass with a groan of pure pleasure, and she stretches out with him, using his belly as her pillow. 

“This is one of my secret spots,” she offers, looking up at the sky. “Dad knows it’s here, of course, but I made him promise a long time ago never to turn this into pasture. I used to practically live out here, summers.” 

He rests a weary hand on her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun and relishing the silky feel of her hair. “You love every inch of this farm, don’t you? How have you survived away from it for so long?” 

“Lots of reasons. I do love it here, but, ya know, there’s Edie.” He can feel her sigh vibrate through both of them. “And I never wanted to spend my _whole_ life here. There’s too much else to do. But I have to come back and get my fix every once in a while, or I start feelin’ off.” 

“It suits you. You look _right_ , here, like some kind of… earth goddess or something. It’s part of you, the country, even though I’ve only ever known you in the big city.” 

She rolls over so she can see him, and he knows what that look in her eyes means by now. “Yeah, it’s part of me. And so are you.”

***

They eventually make their way back to the house for dinner, drunk on fresh air and flushed from the sun. Cyril finds himself inexplicably starving, and everything tastes incredible, although he isn’t sure whether it’s the food or having spent the day outdoors. Jim’s been fairly quiet all evening, but he finally speaks up toward the end of the meal. “So, Pam, Edie’s gonna be comin’ over tonight to see ya.” 

“ _Daddy._ ” Pam stiffens, unhappy but clearly unsurprised. “You _know_ Edie and I don’t get along. She’s gonna be out for my blood because of the wedding! If she stabs me in the frickin’ neck again, it’s gonna be your fault.” 

“Aww, come on, Pammy-pie. It can’t be that bad. You’re grown women now, time to put all the childhood feudin’ behind you. When I’m gone, you’ll only have each other left.” 

Cyril looks at Pam, eyebrow raised in amusement, and mouths _Pammy-pie?_ at her, and she blushes and kicks him under the table. “Shut up. Not _you_ , Dad. Cyril’s bustin’ my chops, that’s all. And I know you’re right, but I don’t think Edie gives a damn. She beat hell out of me last time I saw her, and that was _before_ the rehearsal dinner went to shit.” 

“Just try to get along for one night, can’t ya? I love both my gals and I don’t want ya at each other’s throats every time I see ya.” 

“Well… I promise I won’t punch her unless she punches me first.” 

Jim sighs. “Guess that’s as good as it’s gonna get.”

***

Jim goes to bed early, as farmers do, and Pam and Cyril are left alone. “Goddamn,” she grumbles. “He is such a gigantic pussy! He blabs to Edie that I’m here, and then he doesn’t even have the balls to stay up and wait for her. She is gonna frickin’ _kill_ me.”

“I doubt she’s going to kill you.” Cyril says dryly, but he relents when he sees the genuine anxiety in her eyes, and puts an arm around her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay, Pam. I know she’s a raging bitch, but she’s your _sister_. Do you really think she’s going to hurt you?”

Pam scoffs. “Did I not tell ya about the time she _stabbed_ me? In the _neck?_ ” 

“Like… on purpose?” 

“Yes! On purpose!” They’ve been together long enough for Cyril to know that nothing gets her worked up like dealing with her sister, and he knows this isn’t going anywhere good if he doesn’t get her distracted soon. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, Edie barrels in shortly thereafter; she doesn’t waste any time, looking them both up and down with contempt. 

“Jesus H., Spamela, you had to rope some other poor sap into comin’ out here with ya this time? Did the gay strip joint ya found the last one at get shut down by the cops or somethin’?” 

Pam rolls her eyes, determined not to let Edie get under her skin. “Edie, this is my _husband_ , Cyril. We just got married last Saturday and we’re on our honeymoon. I figured Dad would’ve told you.” 

“Whaaaaaat?” Edie howls with laughter. “Bull. Shit! _You_ got married? To _him?_ ” She’s practically crying, and Cyril’s beginning to see why Pam doesn’t come home all that often. “Seriously, now. How much did ya have to pay him to do this?” 

“He _is_ my husband,” Pam grits out. “We’re married. For real.”

Edie looks back and forth between them, laughter dying as she realizes Pam’s serious. “Oh, my God. When I was gettin’ married, I asked you to be a bridesmaid, and you don’t even frickin’ invite me to your wedding?”

“ _Oooo_ -kay. First of all, _I_ shoulda been your maid of honor, not Midge ‘Electrolux’ Olerud! And second of all, we didn’t invite ya because we didn’t invite _any_ of our families, _and_ because I knew you’d try to fuck it up because you think _I_ fucked up _your_ wedding.” 

“You _did_ fuck up my wedding!” Edie’s fuming now, and Cyril’s fidgeting uncomfortably, wondering if he should try to break this up before it gets physical. She waves her ringless left hand at Pam. “In case ya haven’t noticed, I’m not married!” 

“Didn’t end up forgivin’ Don, then?” 

“No! That shit-for-brains rat-bastard doesn’t deserve me!” Edie scowls. Her voice drops, and she looks away. “And… also, he’s engaged to Midge now.”

“Haaaaaa!” Pam smirks at her sister. “Guess she oughta give ya some lessons – maybe then you can find somebody who’s willin’ to seal the deal!” 

Edie turns a narrow-eyed gaze to Cyril. “Okay. I gotta know. What the hell was going on in that four-eyed head of yours that made ya look at _her_ and think ‘I gotta lock that shit down’?” 

“Well, let’s see.” Cyril takes Pam’s hand and pretends to think, having learned a thing or two about dealing with bullies in his lifetime. “She’s gorgeous, smart, totally confident, somehow manages to be both the most badass and the most caring person I’ve ever known, and for some crazy reason she loves me back.” He pauses, considering whether to add one last thing, and decides Edie deserves it. “Oh, and she is _phenomenal_ in bed.” 

“You’re not so bad yourself, cowboy,” Pam shoots back, flushing at his praise. 

Edie scoffs in disgust. “And you’d know!” She turns to Cyril again, grinning maliciously. “Did she tell ya about the shit she used to get up to in high school? She used to go parkin’ with every loser from here to Milwaukee. She got caught with her pants down so many times I thought she was tryin’ to get a job as a drive-in movie screen.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who practically had a five-cent blowjob booth goin’ behind the old grain elevator,” Pam retorts. “I think I saw your name on a bathroom wall in a few truck stops.” 

Cyril’s desperately uncomfortable now, and he really has to pee, but he has a feeling he shouldn’t leave Pam alone with Edie for too long. He assesses the situation, and decides their argument isn’t likely to turn physical. For the moment, they seem to be content with verbally abusing each other, so he takes his chance. He tries to be as quick as possible, afraid that Edie’s going to get worse as soon as he leaves. As soon as he returns to the living room, he knows he was right; he can hear her, low and vicious. 

“You’re not dumb enough to think he’s gonna stick around forever, are ya? He may think he’s in love now, but as soon as he really gets to know ya, he’ll be gone. I can tell just by lookin’ at him. He was probably lonely and desperate and he only married ya because you were desperate enough to throw your cooch at him. Typical Spamela.”

Cyril’s an only child, so he doesn’t really know how normal siblings treat each other, but he’s pretty sure it shouldn’t be like this. He can’t believe what he just heard coming out of Edie’s mouth, and he can see it striking into Pam’s heart, finding the little pocket of insecurity that she usually guards so carefully. She’s shrinking into herself, diminishing before his eyes, and he’ll be damned before he lets that happen. 

Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s across the room, looming over Edie’s chair with a vise-like grip on the pressure point on her collarbone. “There is not _one single syllable_ of truth in anything you just said, and if you _ever_ speak to my wife like that again,” he hisses, “I will personally ensure they are the last words you ever speak.” 

For once in her life, Edie has no response. 

After that, Pam gets up without a word and walks out of the house, not looking back. Cyril follows her out, hears her starting the car, and hops into the passenger seat just in time. She drives into the dark, silent, but he can see the silvery trace of a tear on her cheek in the dashboard’s glow, and she doesn’t pull her hand away when he reaches out for it.

Through the windshield, Cyril finally sees the gleam of moonlight on water, and Pam’s heading straight for it, faster than he’s really comfortable with. Before he can say something, though, she stops the car, kills the engine, and gets out. He watches as she walks down toward the water, counts a hundred, and goes after her. 

He wraps himself around her from behind, not saying anything, just holding her. She’s coiled-spring taut in his arms at first, but he can feel the tension running out of her gradually, and finally she heaves a sigh. It’s the first sound she’s made in over an hour, and it echoes like a gunshot in the dark. 

“I used to come out here all the time once I had my own car,” she says quietly. “Whenever I was pissed off, or hurtin’, or lonely. Somethin’ about this place just always made me feel better.” 

“I can see why. It’s so peaceful here.” 

“I just…” She waves her hands, the effort to find the right words futile, and she settles for a long, drawn-out growl of frustration. Cyril doesn’t say a word, just keeps holding her tight against him. He knows how easy it is to let family push your buttons, even when you’ve vowed not to let it happen. Especially when you’ve vowed not to let it happen. 

Eventually she turns in his arms to face him. “Thanks for tellin’ her off for me,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder. “But I can fight my own battles, ya know.”

“I do know, and I love you for it.” He takes her face in his hands, gently, the moon painting it in shades of silver. “But I hope you know you don’t have to fight them all anymore.” 

She answers him without words, and he can feel her urgency, her desperation to get back on solid ground after the emotional quicksand her sister dragged her into. He rebuilds her bit by bit, bringing her back to herself, telling her over and over with his lips and tongue and hands _you’re so strong, you’re so beautiful, I love you, I love you, you’re mine, mine, mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, I had a friend who only liked classical music. I took it upon myself to expand his musical horizons, and I tried so hard to find other music that I thought he might enjoy. He hated it all, so finally I just gave up; _okay, well, screw you, here's something you're definitely gonna hate!_ Needless to say, he was not a fan of Mclusky, which is a very noisy band probably most famous for a song called ["Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OgkzRE89Gyw)


	3. Tennessee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're never told exactly where Cyril grew up, but the incomparable Chris Parnell is from Tennessee, and it's a state I happen to be particularly fond of, so that's where these two are headed next. 
> 
> Also, smut alert, for this chapter and the next. Hey, they're on their honeymoon!

The next morning, they say their goodbyes to Jim and get back on the road. The farther south they go, the harder it is for Cyril to keep the accent he's tried so hard to outgrow from creeping back into his voice; as soon as he figures out that Pam thinks it's adorable, he stops trying entirely. It's somewhere in Kentucky that he starts calling her darlin'.

They eat and drink their way across the South. Cyril introduces Pam to his favorite guilty pleasure, Waffle House, and if she hadn't already married him, that might have done the trick all on its own. Roadside barbecue shacks, homemade biscuits and gravy, bourbon, and moonshine, they try it all. Ray texts Pam: _enough with the goddamn Snacklesnaps! I’ve gained five pounds just looking at them!_

Cyril surprises Pam by ordering his hot chicken “Shut the Cluck Up!” in a Nashville diner. “You sure about that?” she asks. “I know you like spicy, but…” 

“I grew up on this stuff, darlin’. I can handle it. Not sure if _you_ can, though.” He shoots her his very best teasing look, and just as he predicted, she finds the challenge irresistible. When her cheeks turn rosy and the sweat beads on her forehead after her first bite, and he’s still perfectly cool and collected, he feels ridiculously proud of himself. _Married to such a badass,_ he thinks, _I’ll have to take my little victories wherever I can find them._ Of course, the chicken has its revenge the next morning, but he’ll never admit that to her. 

The closer they get to Cyril’s hometown, the quieter he gets. He’s driving, his face increasingly set into lines of tension, and Pam’s getting worried. “Hey, honey.” She reaches over to take his hand. “I know you’re nervous about seein’ your dad, but don’t forget, you roll deep now.” 

Despite his stress, he has to laugh a little at that. “I have to admit I have no idea what that means.”

“It means you’re not alone. I’ve got your back, no matter what.”

“I know.” He relaxes enough to squeeze her hand and flash her a quick sad-eyed smile. “It’s just… complicated.” 

“I get it, I really do. You’ve met my sister, remember?” She laughs. “Just keep in mind, you are a grown-ass, successful man. You flew the goddamn space shuttle, for shit’s sake! You’re a CEO now and you’re happily married to a hot piece of ass who will never hesitate to fuck _anyone_ up if they give you any shit whatsoever. Even if they’re your dad.” 

“…I love you. So much.” 

***  
Cyril finally pulls into the driveway of a small white house with a big front porch. He’s been away so long he’s nearly forgotten just how August in Tennessee wraps itself around you, trailing its fingers across your skin and insinuating itself under your clothes like an insistent lover. As soon as he steps out of the car, it all comes back to him. 

Nobody’s home and the neighborhood is completely deserted; Sunday morning around here means everyone’s at church. Pam gives him a narrow-eyed look that says plain as day _you planned it like this, didn’t you?_ He glances back at her, with the half-smile she’s learned to recognize as his guilty face, and she sighs. “Dude.”

“Nobody ever locks their doors around here,” he says. “We can at least go in and I can show you around till he gets home.”

“All right, then, fine. Let’s go see if all your kid shit is still in your room.”

It’s a plain little house, immaculately kept, and it looks just like Cyril remembers it. He hasn’t been here in years, but as far as he can tell, nothing’s changed. Same old photos on the wall, same carpet, same wallpaper, same empty, lonely feeling. Pam’s tugging at his hand, eager for the tour even though he can’t really think of anything worth showing her, so he sighs and leads her on. 

“Awww, look! Baby Cyril!” Pam catches sight of one of the family photos, and squeals. “You were adorable! Funny how it could almost be a picture of the Wee Baby Seamus – guess all babies look alike.” Peering at it, Cyril sees the resemblance too; the faintest note strikes somewhere in the back of his brain, but he can’t place it, so he shrugs and moves on. 

They end up in his bedroom, eventually. "So this is where you grew up," she says, running her hand over the desk. "All your childhood memories, right here in this room." 

He rolls his eyes. "Don't remind me. Most of them aren't particularly good ones." 

She either hasn't heard him or isn't listening; she drops down onto the bed and stretches herself out, smirking. "I bet ya used to jack it in here all the time. I can just see it... poor geeky teenage Cyril, all tied up in knots over some chick in his math class with the biggest titties in the whole school." 

"Hey." He winces, his pride a little wounded by that, but he can't honestly say she's wrong.

She just laughs, beckoning him to join her on the bed. "Wish we’d been high school classmates - I'd have shown ya a thing or two." 

"Really? You went for guys like me?" He's skeptical, but he knows Pam never lies about sex.

"Ever seen Revenge of the Nerds?" 

"Yeah, why?" 

"The truest thing in that whole movie was that jocks are thinkin’ about sports all the time, but the nerds are the ones thinkin' about sex. _They're_ always the sure thing." She winks at him and pulls him down next to her. He melts into her, letting her hands roam over his body, simultaneously weirded out and turned on by the idea of getting laid in his sad little childhood bedroom. God knows it’s never happened before.

"Let's you and me exorcise some demons," she whispers, and he takes a shaky breath as she unzips his pants and curls her fingers around him. "Flashback, baby. You're eighteen, horny as hell, and you've got me in your bed, all ready and willin'. What would you do?" 

"I... oh, God... oh..." He feels the curve of her smile against his skin, and he whimpers when she takes her hand away. "Please..." 

"I forgot," she murmurs. "You can't think when I'm touchin' ya like this, so why don’t _you_ do the touchin’, and _I'll_ talk." She takes his hand, moves it down to where she wants it. "Show me what ya do when you're alone."

"You're such a pervert," he moans, but he does what she tells him to. "Such a voyeur." 

"And you love it." 

"God help me, I do." He's breathless, moving faster now. "Talk to me. Tell me what you'd do to me." 

"Well, let's see…” She can’t resist teasing him a little, setting her teeth gently on the edge of his ear, and he shudders. “We’d make out for a good long time first, get us good and ready. Rollin' all around on the bed, all our clothes still on, kissin’ each other till you’re so hard it almost hurts…" Her quiet, breathy voice is hypnotic, weaving an intimate time-spell. He feels eighteen again, touching himself, desperately _wanting,_ but the reality of a woman, this woman, is so much better than he ever could have imagined back then. 

"You've never seen tits like these before. Definitely never touched 'em, so I'm gonna let ya take my shirt off, maybe even let ya kiss 'em..."

"Oh, God, you're killing me," he pants. She’s not even touching him now; her words alone are pushing him beyond control. 

"Oh, yeah, honey, you’re makin’ me feel so good, I need more… gonna get up on your lap so I can grind on ya a little. That cock of yours feels so hot up against me, so big and hard, I gotta get your pants off so I can touch it..."

With a choked gasp he spills into his hand, sooner than he wanted, but totally unable to hold back any longer. His head falls back, his mouth wide open, his heart racing. 

" _Jesus,_ Pam. That was... oh, my God." 

"Aww, you didn't even let me get to the good part! Feel better now?"

“Oh, my God.”

“I’m gonna take that as a yes. Now go clean up so we can wait for your dad to get home.” She laughs and kisses him, delighted with herself. 

His breath is coming back to him now, and so is his ability to form coherent sentences. “But… what about you?” 

She smirks at him. “You’ll just have to owe me one.” 

***

The air in the little house is stifling, so Cyril decides to wait for his father on the front porch, where there’s at least a tiny chance of catching a breeze. He sits at one end of the porch swing, Pam stretched out across it with her legs in his lap, and he idly plays with the hem of her skirt. He stares into space, only coming back to himself when she touches his hand. 

“How long’s it been?” she asks him softly. 

“A few years, at least. Last time I was here was probably for my grandfather’s funeral. I haven’t seen my father since.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s always tough, not gettin’ along with family.” 

“Yeah, but we needed to come here. He should know I’m married, at least.” He sighs. “Seems like the kind of thing a father should know about his son, whether or not he approves.” 

“You think he won’t approve of me?” 

“He doesn’t approve of anything I’ve ever done. Why should this be any different?” He tries and fails to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and Pam’s heart goes out to him. 

“It doesn’t matter anymore, honey. You’re an adult. You don’t need his permission, or approval, or anything, and I know ya know that.” 

“I do. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish it were different.” He strokes her leg, trying to distract himself from his fretting. “Anyway, enough of that. I’m definitely never going to be able to look at my childhood bedroom the same way again, after what you did to me in there… I mean, God, what would you even _call_ that?”

She thinks for a minute, then looks at him, her face pure innocence but her eyes dancing impishly. “Aural sex?” 

Momentarily stunned, he throws his head back and roars, all his tension disappearing on a great gust of laughter. It’s infectious, and Pam’s carried along with him until tears are running down her face. That’s how Cyril’s father finds them, so lost in each other’s mirth that they don’t notice him pulling into the driveway. 

“ _Cyril?_ ” 

He’s an older, sterner version of Cyril, and he’s clearly shocked to see his son at all, let alone entangled on his own front porch with a woman. In one smooth movement, Pam swings her legs down, straightens her dress, and gets up to extend a hand. 

“Hi! You must be Cyril’s dad. I’m Pam. Nice to meet you.” He shakes her hand automatically, still looking surprised, but by now Cyril’s risen to his own feet. 

“Hello, Father,” he says, his tone carefully neutral. “I’d like you to meet my wife.” 

***

 _For sheer awkwardness,_ Pam thinks, _this has gotta rival the infamous Whipped Cream Incident,_ although now that she really considers it, this one has to be worse because all of the involved parties are actually aware of each other’s presence. To make matters worse, Cyril's father's sofa is the most uncomfortable piece of furniture she's ever sat on. There is absolutely nothing about this moment that's giving her any pleasure whatsoever, which is not a state of affairs she generally allows to continue for long. 

She's trying her hardest to be charming and pleasant, but meeting Cyril's father explains an awful lot about how Malory can get under his skin so effectively. The laser-like stare, the almost palpable air of disapproval wafting from him, the sense of complete domination of any room he’s in: they're all classic Malory-moves that Pam's seen her deploy to devastating effect. They work so well on a grown man, Pam can only imagine what they must have done to a sensitive, motherless little boy, and it tears at her heart to picture it. It's kind of a miracle he's as functional as he is, really. 

"Cyril tells me you're a retired school superintendent? That must have been interesting." 

“Hmmm.” He looks at her, briefly assessing, and apparently decides it’s not worth his time to give her a proper response. His attention turns back to Cyril, who’s trying to shrink into the so-called cushions, until Pam nudges him with her elbow to make him straighten up. _I’m here,_ her gesture tells him. _You can do this._

“So, you’re married?” He sounds only vaguely interested, and Pam assumes he’s asking more because it’s the proper social convention than because he actually cares about the answer.

“Married a week ago Saturday. We’re moving out to Los Angeles for work, so we decided to take a cross-country road trip for our honeymoon.” Cyril’s outwardly calm, but Pam’s holding his hand now, and she can feel the tension traveling down to his fingertips. She squeezes it, just once, as he continues. “Our agency… well, it’s a long story, but we’re changing our mission from espionage to private investigation, and I’ve been tapped as the new CEO.”

That gets a reaction, finally. “CEO? Well done.” There’s something about that simple statement that sets Pam’s teeth on edge, and then she realizes what it is. Cyril, beaming at the praise, doesn’t notice, but it’s not pride in his father’s voice. It’s surprise, and it’s condescension. 

_How can he give his own son so little credit?_ She can’t stop herself from chiming in, trying to distract herself from the rage that’s rising in her. “What he didn’t tell ya is that before the agency decided to move, he got promoted to field agent and went on missions and everythin’! And Cyril’s practiced law for us too, and handled all the finances, and we couldn’t get along without him.” She squeezes his hand again, smiling at him, willing him to pick up on what she’s trying to do. He doesn’t.

“Well, it’s not as exciting as all that,” he says, with that self-deprecating chuckle that Pam’s tried so hard to stamp out of him. “It’s really the law degree that got me the CEO position, since I’m the only one with the qualifications to get a PI license in California.” 

His father’s face settles back into its lines of disapproval, and Pam’s heart falls with it. “Oh. I see.” 

This time, the disappointment’s impossible to miss; Cyril’s face twists as he finally understands. He slumps down, deflated, but only for a moment. For the first time since they sat down, he squeezes her hand in return, and stands up abruptly. "No," he says. "You really don't. You never have." 

Now Cyril's father really does look surprised. He's obviously not used to seeing his son stand up to anyone, but it doesn't take long before the astonishment in his face shifts to the realization that somehow, somewhere in the years it's been since they were last in the same room together, Cyril's grown a spine. Or really, maybe he's finally discovered the one he's had all along, buried like a fossil under layers of disappointment and failure and the bedrock of self-doubt.

"For forty years I've been trying to live up to your expectations for me, and beating myself up every time I fall short. But I'm done, because now I finally know what I've been missing. For the first time since Mama died I know what it feels like to have somebody really believe in me, and I don't need anybody else dragging me right back down. So goodbye, Father. I doubt I'll be back." 

He turns to Pam, taking her hand again as she stands up herself. Despite his brave words, he's trembling, so she wraps her arm around his waist to steady him and looks directly into his father's eyes, so like Cyril's own. She's lost all desire to make a good impression at this point, so she figures _what the hell._

"It's been real," she says casually, flashing him a gang sign she learned from her sparring partners at fight club, just to see the look on his face. As they turn their backs on Cyril's father, she does one more thing, too. An almost-imperceptible wiggle of her shoulders, usually a go-to move in seduction situations, now works just as well to "accidentally" drop the strap of her dress just low enough to display part of her tattoo. By the shocked noise, quickly muffled, she hears behind her as she walks out the door, she knows it's done the trick. _Not much of a revenge,_ she thinks, _but it's better than nothing._

It’s not until they’re in the car that Cyril lets out the breath he’s been holding. “So, that was my dad. That’s your father-in-law. Nice guy, huh?”

Pam shrugs, unwilling to take the bait; the last thing he needs right now is her losing her shit, and if she gets going now, she knows she’s not going to stop. “Well...” She stalls for a second, and then the perfect comparison hits her. “If he was a couch, I wouldn’t sit on him.” 

“That’s… actually a really good way to put it.” He snickers despite himself, picturing it. 

“Thanks, honey. And I’m proud of ya for standin’ up to him. But I think it’s time for us to get outta here before I go back in there and kick his condescendin’ ass.” 

***  
Cyril's calmer after their meeting with his father than Pam would have expected, but it turns out to be a façade. That night, he finds the nearest bar to their motel and proceeds to get utterly plastered. After the fourth double bourbon, Pam's basically holding him up, and after the sixth, she decides this has gone far enough. "You're cut off, honey," she says, not without sympathy. "We're goin' back to the motel before ya get yourself arrested." It's not the first time she's seen him this drunk, but it's the first time she's seen him make the deliberate choice to obliterate himself, and she can't help worrying about him. 

By the time they get back to their room, he's heading into the puking phase, and oddly, that makes her feel better. She knows he'll feel like hot garbage in the morning, but the more of it he can get out of his system tonight, the better off he'll be. She spends most of the night with him in the bathroom, rubbing his back in between bouts of vomiting, making sure he doesn't pass out and hit his head on anything, making sure he drinks as much water as he'll let her give him. He doesn't talk much and doesn't make much sense when he does, but when the puking finally ends and he's curled up with his head in her lap, exhausted, he looks up at her. She's never seen his eyes so sad, and somehow she knows what he's going to say before he says it. 

"I’m so sorry. I fucked up. Again." 

"Nothin' to be sorry for," she says matter-of-factly, petting his disheveled hair away from his forehead and leaning in to kiss him there. "We've all been there." 

"I'm such a loser."

"I don't date losers, and I definitely don't marry 'em, and last I checked, I was married to you. So that tells me you're no loser." That gets a faint smile from him, at least. "Now come on, work with me here so I can get ya into bed, ‘less you'd rather sleep on the bathroom floor." He shakes his head, and then turns faintly green again, the motion doing him no favors. 

She finally gets him tucked into bed, making sure he's on his side with the empty ice bucket within easy reach. She curls up behind him, bracing his back to prevent him from rolling over in his sleep, and she smiles to herself when she realizes that this is exactly how he fell asleep in her arms the first time he ever did. "Get some sleep, honey," she whispers to him. "I've got your back." 

***

Pam tiptoes to the window and peeks around the curtain; as soon as a tiny shaft of light makes its way into the room, a tortured moan sounds from the bed. 

“Oh, God. Kill me.” Cyril groans and pulls the pillow over his face to block out the light, but it can’t block out the desperate whimpering noises he’s making. Pam decides to risk it, for the sake of getting some water into him, and peels up a corner of the pillow. One baleful brown eye looks back at her. 

“Hey there,” she says cheerfully. Quietly, though; she’s not a sadist. The whimpering shifts lower, turns into more of a growl, but she ignores it. “I closed the curtain, so come on up and drink some water. I’ve got some Advil for ya.” The eye blinks at her, its owner clearly trying to decide whether the benefits of water and meds outweigh the drawbacks of having to sit up. Water, apparently, wins out. Cyril sits up slowly, every curve and angle of his body proclaiming his misery. He takes the pills, drinks the water, and slumps forward, burying his face in his hands.

“Uuuugh. Please tell me you have a bullet for me, too.” 

Sitting down next to him, she gently strokes his hair. “Nope, no bullets. I’m not done with ya yet. Have some more water and then go back to sleep. We don’t have to go anywhere today. I’ll sort it out with the motel.” 

“I don’t deserve you.” He leans against her, head on her shoulder, and she wraps an arm around him.

“Yes, ya do.” She kisses the top of his head before easing him back down, tucking him in for another round of sleep. “I’m gonna go get myself some breakfast, and I’ll bring back somethin’ for ya so it’ll be here when ya get up.” 

When she gets back, the bed is empty, but she can hear the shower running. She knocks on the bathroom door to let him know she’s there, and soon he emerges, towel tucked around his hips. 

“Hey, honey!” Her face lights up and she gives him a gentle hug, ignoring the water still trickling down his back. “How are ya feelin’?”

“Better now that I’ve showered,” he says. “I smelled like something died in a distillery.”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna say anything, but yeah, ya kinda did.” She sniffs exaggeratedly at his skin, giggling. “You smell awesome now, though. All nice and clean. Mmmmmm.” 

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t think I’m up for doing anything about it right now. I still feel pretty rotten.” 

“Tryin’ to drink all the bourbon in Tennessee has a way of doin’ that to ya.” She rolls her eyes at him. 

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” he groans, sinking back down onto the bed. “That was definitely one of the stupider things I’ve ever done.” 

“Maybe, but it’s not like it wasn’t understandable. Everybody’s got their own ways of dealin’ with shit.” 

"Not exactly the healthiest coping mechanism I could have come up with, right?" 

"Please," she snorts. "Look at any of the people we work with - hell, look at me! - and tell me one night of gettin' yourself shitfaced is worse than anything they do."

“I suppose. Now come on, come back to bed with me,” he coaxes her. "I can't imagine you got much sleep last night either, staying up taking care of my sorry ass." 

"Don't have to tell me twice," she yawns, settling down next to him. He's the big spoon this time, curled up against her back all warm and comforting, and she knows she won't be awake for long. He nuzzles into her hair, sighing. 

"I really am sorry, darlin'. I had a feeling it was a bad idea to come here, but he's the only family I've got left, and..." 

"No, he ain't." She cuts him off abruptly, hugging his arm to herself to soften her words. "Fuck him. And fuck Edie, too. We don't need ‘em. We'll make our own family, you and me." 

"You mean... kids?" He sounds vaguely surprised, like he's never considered the possibility before, but she chalks that up to the hangover and lack of sleep, since she knows perfectly well he's dying to be a dad. 

"Well, yeah! But I meant just us, by ourselves. We're enough of a family together. And our friends, too."

He snorts in amusement. "I'm not sure I'd call our coworkers friends, much less family." 

"Family's not always the ones who gave you life," she says. "They're the ones you'd die for. The ones who'd die for you." 

He doesn't have any words in response, but he keeps holding her as they drift into sleep, his hand resting softly on her belly, and she knows he's heard her. She just hopes he understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waffle House is the tits. If you've never been there, find your nearest one and go! I'll be here when you get back.


	4. Colorado

Now that they’ve taken care of their family obligations, the open road stretches ahead of them and they’re free to please themselves. They cross the Mississippi and work their way across the Great Plains, stopping at any roadside attraction that strikes their fancy, and taking innumerable photos. Pam’s particularly proud of one she captures of Cyril in Kansas, silhouetted against a field of sunflowers and a brooding, stormy sky. She says it makes him look like a model, and while he demurs in public, he secretly thinks she’s kind of right. 

They both fall unexpectedly in love with Colorado. Children of wooded rolling hills, accustomed to the urban jungle, they're totally unprepared for soaring peaks and a sky so wide open that everything feels possible. He thinks the only thing more beautiful than his first glimpse of the snow-capped mountains is her face when she sees them too.

"Someday when we get rich we'll buy a vacation house out here," she says, dreaming out loud. They've driven all the way to the top of Mount Evans, Cyril white-knuckled on the steering wheel the whole way up, Pam hanging out the window snapping picture after picture. Even for August it's colder at the summit than they expected, and they're huddled in each other's arms for warmth, taking deep breaths in the thin air, but they can't force themselves to head back to the car just yet.

Her hair is woven into a single thick braid down her back, and he can’t resist unraveling it; the wind whips it into a golden cloud around them and she yelps in mock outrage. “Asshole! It’s gonna take me forever to get all the knots out now. I should make _you_ brush it out for me.” 

“You realize that’s no punishment, right? You know I love your hair.” He chuckles, burying both hands in it. “You look like a Valkyrie up here, on top of the whole world. I wish I could marry you right here.” 

She huffs at that. "We’re already married, ya dork."

"I'd do it again. Over and over. Everywhere we go." 

He doesn't remember ever feeling so happy. 

***

For the rest of their time in Colorado, Cyril turns the driving completely over to Pam. He's known since their tangle with the Yakuza that she's an excellent driver, but he'd never have guessed back then how much he'd come to love watching her do it. Quick and precise, she drives with her whole body, her strong arms graceful as she leans into each turn. 

He likes to rest his hand on her thigh, appreciating the play of muscle as she dances between brake and gas, but the best part is watching the expression on her face. She's always looking forward with intent delight, grey eyes alive with the need to forge ahead and see what's around the next bend, secure in the certainty that it will be wonderful. It’s easy to see why she wanted to honeymoon this way. To see her like this is to know her essence, to love the core of her, and Cyril can't think of a better way to begin their married life.

He’s dozed off in the passenger seat again, the afternoon sun making a nap inevitable, and he wakes to find himself being driven through a small town. Victorian homes line the road; Pam turns left, and the next one he sees reminds him of a peppermint stick, all pink and white stripes. 

“Where are we?”

She looks over and smiles to see him awake. “It’s called Leadville,” she says. “Old silver minin’ town. Used to be the wildest place in the Wild West, but it looks kinda tame now.” 

“Are we here for any particular reason?” 

“We’re here because we have to drive through it to get to where we’re goin’, but we still got about three and a half hours to go, so feel free to go back to sleep.” 

“I didn’t _mean_ to,” he grumbles. “The sun just makes me sleepy. So where are we going, anyway?”

“I have a surprise for ya,” she says, mischief dancing in her eyes. “I read about this place online and thought it sounded cool, so I booked us in for a couple of nights. Figured we needed a break from the road for a bit.” 

“Really? Well, thanks. I could definitely use one. My back’s starting to complain about being in the car so much.” He stretches, arching his spine, and groans as he feels it crack. 

She pats his leg. “Then you are gonna _love_ where we’re endin’ up tonight!”

Just before sunset, they drive through a small town. Just as Cyril sees a sign for a hot springs resort, Pam finally pulls into a parking lot next to a quick-flowing river. She turns to him, looking as close as she ever gets to shy. “I know you wanted to have our honeymoon at a nice resort, and I talked you into a road trip instead, so I wanted to give you what you wanted too, even though it’s not the beach or anything.” 

She’s rendered him speechless, again; he falls back on his usual response in that situation, kissing her breathless. As soon as he stops, she starts talking again, nervously. 

“And I remember you told me once you love to swim, so I thought…”

“Stop explaining,” he says, taking her face in both hands and kissing her again. “It’s perfect. I love it. I love _you._ ” 

After they settle in and indulge in dinner and a few drinks at the hotel’s bar, they head back to their room to change. “It’s nearly midnight,” Cyril worries, checking his watch. “Will they still let us into the pools?” 

“24-hour access for hotel guests.” Pam waves a brochure at him, triumphantly. “So let’s get movin’!” 

They choose a pool on a terrace overlooking the river, and the late hour ensures they have it all to themselves. Cyril hisses at the first touch of the hot water on his legs, but he quickly adjusts to the temperature, and soon they’re both submerged up to their chins. 

“Oh, my God,” Pam groans. “This is better than… well, not better than sex with _you,_ but definitely better than most of the sex I’ve ever had.” She stretches an arm along the side of the tub, and he watches, fascinated, as steam rises from it. Her skin is beaded with water, each droplet reflecting a tiny moon; he needs to taste it like he needs to breathe. 

He'd intended to stop at kissing her, he really had. But his head is spinning, and he's not sure whether it's the altitude, the drinks, the heat, or the woman, and then with a quick wriggle she’s out of her bathing suit and there's no stopping anymore. "Pam," he whispers, protesting more because he thinks he should than because he actually wants to. "They probably have cameras all over this place." 

“Ya really think I haven’t worked with Krieger and a bunch of spies long enough to know my way around a surveillance system? Come on, now.” She’s irresistible, the barest slide against him, tantalizingly close but not quite touching, not yet. He takes her by the hips, floating her closer, until she’s secure in his lap. The moonlight works its alchemy on her, her wide quicksilver eyes and pale skin luminous in the dark. The minerals in the water have turned her to silk, a smooth slippery glide against him, and when he sheds his own suit and there’s nothing left between them, he thinks of the water-spirit Lorelei, seducing sailors to their deaths with her flowing golden hair. _If this is how I die,_ he thinks, _I’m okay with it._

They kiss like they’re in a dream, slow and lingering. They breathe into each other, the river the only other sound they hear. She’s deliberately teasing him, sliding over and over against his length, just barely letting him nudge at her entrance before she moves again. He lets her do it, knowing that he’s teasing her in kind, knowing that the slow build will be more than worth it. When she finally takes him deep, the slick, wet heat of her wrapping fully around him, it’s like coming home. His orgasm rolls through him like a wave, a fountain of bright sparks going off behind his eyes as he loses himself in her again and again. 

"This must be what it feels like to make love with a mermaid," he murmurs, sliding his hands up her back to gently pull at her hair. 

Her laugh turns into a breathy little moan. “Sploosh,” she says, leaning forward to kiss him again. 

A little later, they’re tucked up in bed together, face to face. Pam hooks a leg around Cyril’s waist and buries her face into the crook of his neck, pulling herself into him as tight as she can. He laughs. “It’s like you’re trying to climb inside me. Can you even breathe like that?” 

“Mm… not really,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “Don’t care, though.”

He strokes her bare back, still damp from the spring and peppered with the faintly raised scars of her tattoo. “You know, I’m curious. Why were you so nervous about surprising me with this?” 

Her response is lost in his skin, so he waits, holding her, until she comes up for air. He quirks an eyebrow at her, and she gives in. “I was afraid you’d think I was bossin’ you around, givin’ orders. Everyone else in your life does, and it was killin’ you. I don’t ever want to make you feel like that with me.” 

“Oh, darlin’,” he sighs, understanding now. “Never, never, never. I know better than that. There’s a world of difference between planning a surprise to make me happy, and trying to _control_ me.” 

“And does it? Make you happy?”

“ _You_ make me happy,” he says, rolling with her till she’s pinned under him. “Why don’t I show you just how much?” 

***

They linger another couple of days at the hot springs, until Malory calls Cyril to screech at him about whether he’s ever planning to show up in LA. It’s unconscious good timing on her part. Pam talked him into going to a dispensary that morning, and the edibles have definitely started to kick in. All of his senses are heightened. Everything is hilarious.

He holds the phone away from his ear, letting Malory’s voicemail play out for Pam, and as her voice spirals higher in outrage they laugh harder and harder. Once Cyril catches his breath, he calls Malory back; as soon as she picks up, he cuts her right off. 

“Malory? What’s the name of the new LA office going to be, again? Oh, yes, that’s right. The _Figgis_ Agency. And unless you married my father when I wasn’t paying attention, in which case, best of luck with that, Figgis is _my_ last name, not yours. _I_ am the CEO, right now you need me more than I need you, and I will get to LA when I’m good and damn well ready. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get back to my honeymoon. My wife needs bangin’.” 

Pam just stares at him, open-mouthed, as he hangs up on Malory. “I have never loved you more than I do right this second.” 

“Oh, God, that felt good!” He collapses back on the bed, sputtering with laughter. “I’ve wanted to tell her off like that for _years._ ” 

His phone chimes, and Pam grabs it, just in case it’s Malory calling back. It’s not. It’s Archer, texting: _hahaha holy shit that was awesome! about time you stood up for yourself with her._

Pam types back: _did she throw her phone again?_

_Shattered all over the place. 10/10 tantrum. A++++ would sass again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [Mount Evans drive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvZpP6DC-2A) for your viewing pleasure...


	5. Nevada

After that, the spell is broken. They’re still taking time to enjoy the sights on their way to LA, but they both know the end of the road is coming up fast. Pam fills her online photo album with the Four Corners, Monument Valley, the Grand Canyon, and Hoover Dam; Cyril’s always appreciated a good Western, and he gets the pull now, knows why the early settlers were inexorably drawn to this place, but he’s ready to get where they’re going already. As much as he’s loved traveling with Pam, finding a new adventure around every corner, he’s domestic at heart, and he wants to settle down and build an everyday life with her. He wants to wake up with her every morning in their own bed, their own home, cook for her, take care of her (when she lets him, that is). 

She hasn’t said it explicitly, but he’s pretty sure she wants that too. As long as he’s known her, she’s always been up for any adventure as long as she has a home base to come back to, and he has a suspicion that their current lack of one is starting to get to her more than she’d like to admit. _It’s time,_ he thinks. _Time to leave the honeymoon bubble and start making a plan for the rest of our lives._

“So, when we get to LA, we should probably start looking for a place to live…”

“Yeah! I was thinkin’ about that. I asked Ray to keep an eye out for us, so we’ll have a head start when we get there.” 

Cyril’s not sure if that’s a good idea or a bad one. “Um… what, exactly, did you ask him to look for? I’m not sure his taste is exactly in line with ours...” 

“Just somethin’ small and not too expensive, close to work. I heard the traffic in LA is a shitshow, so I didn’t think we should be too far away.” She thinks for a second. “I did tell him we want some outdoor space, though. A balcony, or a patio, or maybe even a little yard. I want us to have somewhere we can grow a garden.”

“A garden? I didn’t know you liked plants.” He’s never thought of it, but it makes a satisfying amount of sense; suddenly, he’s never wanted anything more than to tend a garden side by side with her, hands in the earth, helping things grow.

She grins at him. “Who’d ya think took care of all your office plants whenever you were away?”

“I never realized just how long you’ve been looking after me,” he says, shaking his head. “All that time we wasted…” 

“Don’t think like that. We’re together now, and that’s all we need. No more lookin’ back.” 

Something catches Cyril’s attention, and he glances over his shoulder. “You might want to. Look back, that is. Is it just me, or is that truck coming up on us awfully fast?” 

Pam checks the rearview mirror, frowning. “Not just you. What in the hell is he doin’? I’m gonna move over and let him pass.” As she changes lanes, the truck swerves into them, clipping their rear bumper and sending them spinning across three lanes of traffic. Pam uses every trick she knows from her racing days to try to regain control, but the car has its own agenda now, and the last thing Cyril hears is the crunch and shriek of glass and metal as the world turns upside down. 

***

“Motherfucking goddamn sonofabitch shit-for-brains cockface _asshole!_ ” Pam fumbles with her seatbelt and shoves at the crumpled door. Her left arm doesn’t seem to be working, but she’s not going to think about that right now. She’s been in enough wrecks to know she has to get out before this thing catches on fire. A few more pushes, a kick that sends a lightning bolt of pain through her knee, and the door finally yields; she half-steps, half-falls out as her leg crumples beneath her. 

Somehow she makes it around to the passenger side and yanks on Cyril’s door, giving wordless thanks for a farming childhood and a variety of hobbies that have made her strong enough to do with one arm what most people couldn’t do with two. Even then, it takes every last ounce of her strength to pull that door open, and when she finally does, she has to rest for a second. 

"Cyril! Honey! _Cyril...??_ "

Cyril's slumped forward into the deflating airbag, and the only part of him that's moving is the trickle of blood running down the side of his face. She unfastens his seatbelt and tries to pull him free of the wreckage, but her strength is gone and her arm feels like it's on fire now and all she can do is lean against him and what's left of their car as the sirens get louder. 

***

Lana's boots echo in the quiet hallway as she hurries toward the room the nurses pointed out to her. She couldn't make out most of Pam's call, but she got enough to know that there was a car accident outside Las Vegas, and Krieger's phone tracker did the rest. For the first time, she feels oddly grateful for his creepy insistence on keeping tabs on all of them. 

She stops short outside the room, not wanting to intrude if the voice she hears inside is one of the hospital staff. Listening more closely, she realizes that the voice is far too emotional, but it takes her another second to realize it's Pam. Lana's known Pam for years, seen her in just about every possible mood and situation, from sex to shootouts, but she's never heard Pam sound so utterly terrified and heartbroken. 

"Please," she's murmuring. "Please, please, honey, wake up for me. I love you. I need you with me. Everything hurts and I'm worn out from travelin' and I just wanna go _home._ With you." Her voice breaks in a quiet sob, and Lana knows she really shouldn't be listening in on this, but she can't make herself interrupt just yet. 

"Please, baby. I love you. So goddamn much I can't even tell you. I want to get a little house with you, and grow a garden, and all the stuff we talked about but we can't do that if you don't wake up. I almost lost you once and I'm not gonna lose you now. _Please._ "

Lana's heard enough. She knocks softly on the doorframe and Pam whirls, unable to suppress a gasp of pain at the sudden movement. Her arm is in a cast and sling, her knee is bandaged, her eyes are black with bruising or maybe tears and mascara, but she’s conscious, and she’s trying to smile. That’s a lot more than Lana can say for Cyril at the moment. 

"Lana! Thanks for comin'... I know it might be a little awkward for ya."

"I came as soon as I got your call," Lana says, giving Pam a gentle hug. "You're my friends. Both of you. What the shit _happened?_ " 

"Drunk driver, apparently. He was all over the road, clipped us from behind and we spun out and rolled. " Pam sniffles. "Broke my arm and busted up my knee pretty good. Cyril got hurt worse - they said internal bleedin’ and rushed him into surgery, but he hasn't come 'round yet. I’ve been here since he got out. The nurses keep tryin’ to make me go lie down somewhere but I’m _not_ leavin’."

"Jesus. I'm so sorry." Lana's seen a lot of badly injured people in her line of work, most of whom she was responsible for injuring, and in her semi-expert opinion, Cyril does not look good at all. There's nothing she can do about that, though, so she focuses on what she can do. "Do you want me to sit with him while you go get cleaned up, or get coffee, or anything?" 

"No!" Pam panics. "No - thanks for offerin' but I can't leave. I wanna be here with him when he wakes up." 

"Okay. You just let me know if you change your mind." Lana sighs, pulling out her phone to let Archer know what's up. He'll tell the rest of the gang. 

_With them at the hospital. Drunk driver hit them. C's in bad shape, P's hurt but not as bad. She's losing her shit though and it's kinda freaking me out tbh._

_God. How bad? Minor rampage or war zone?_

_Minor rampage for P, closer to war zone for C. Not good._

_Shit._

_Yup. Might be here a while. Kiss AJ for me._

_Already done. ☺ Love you, stupid._

_You too, asshole._

After a while, Lana has to get up and pace the halls for a bit. Pam's dozing in the chair next to Cyril's bed, but she hasn't let go of his hand since Lana's been there. At least Lana managed to talk Pam into letting her clean up her face; turns out the blackened eyes were mostly mascara, so at least she doesn't look quite so beat up now. 

As she comes back into the room, she sees that Pam’s slumped over, half in and half out of her chair, head resting on the pillow next to Cyril’s. As adorable as it looks, Lana knows it can’t be good for Pam’s injuries, so she reluctantly decides she has to wake her up. She touches Pam’s shoulder, as gently as she can, but Pam startles awake, obviously in pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I had to wake you up. Sleeping all hunched over like that, you’re just going to hurt worse later.” 

“I know.” Pam laments. “I was tryin’ to stay awake but I just couldn’t.”

“Honey. You’re hurt too. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this. Didn’t they admit _you_ to the hospital? Or give you anything for the pain?”

“Well… I think so? Maybe? It’s all a little blurry.” 

“Okay. I’m going to get this straightened out. You stay here.” Lana stalks off, and half an hour later, Pam’s tucked into a hospital bed next to Cyril’s, eyes heavy.

“Don’t fight it,” Lana says, patting her good hand. “You need to rest and recover too. You won’t be any good to Cyril if you’re in a coma or whatever.” 

Pam yawns. “Promise you’ll wake me up if he comes ‘round?” 

“I promise.” Lana sighs. “I’ll be right here.” 

“I feel… weird. What’d they give me?”

“Probably a whole lot of morphine, or something like that. You’re pretty beat up.” 

“Morphine? Shit! Told ‘em not to.”

“Why on earth would you tell them that?”

"Don't wanna get addicted," Pam slurs. "Already been there. Not good for me. Not good for..." Whatever they did give her, it's strong. She's fighting hard to stay awake; not for the first time, Lana wonders just how much it would take to really knock Pam out. 

"Baby." She finally finds the word she was searching for, and Lana freezes. 

"Oh, my God. Pam! Are you saying what I think you're saying? You're pregnant?" 

Pam's still just this side of conscious but she's slipping fast. It takes a minute before she answers, and she doesn't bother opening her eyes. "Don't... _think_ so. But soon. I hope. Friend for AJ." Her lips curve into a sweet, dreamy smile as she finally lets the drugs pull her under, and it tugs at Lana's heart. She knows just how badly Cyril wants to be a dad, and even though his life has clearly taken the best possible turn, she still feels a pang of guilt when she thinks about how much she hurt him with Abbiejean. They may have been a disaster together, but that doesn't mean Lana doesn't want him to be happy. 

Lana settles back in her chair, watching both of them sleep. She smiles to herself, and hopes they're having good dreams about each other. They deserve it.

***

_Pain._

That's the first thing Cyril's mind registers when he becomes aware of himself again. He feels bruised all over, but there's a white-hot line of a different kind of pain across his belly, and when he opens his eyes he can see an IV pole hanging over his bed. _Hospital, then._ He tries to turn his head, and can't move more than a tiny bit before something stops him. Whether it's the shooting pain in his neck or some kind of brace, he's not sure, and doesn't much care, to be honest. 

Since he can't turn his head to see if anyone else is in the room, he decides he'll have to make some noise. 

"Nngh." He tries to form a word, but what comes out is more like a croak. It does the trick, though. A familiar face looms over him in an instant, but it's not the one he expected. 

"Lah." He clears his throat and tries again. "Lana?" _That's better._

Lana grins at him, looking strangely relieved. "Yup. It's me. How's it hangin'?" 

"Hurts. Wha' happened?" he manages to rasp out. 

"Car accident. You were hit by a drunk driver outside Vegas. You had to have emergency surgery and you're still in the hospital." 

Terror seizes him and his eyes fly open wide. "Pam! Pam? Is she... she..." He tries instinctively to sit up, but both the pain and Lana's giant hand keep him where he is. 

"Easy there. She’s OK and she's in the bed right next to yours. If you weren't in a neck brace you could just turn your head and see her. She wasn't hurt nearly as badly as you, but they gave her a lot of pain meds and she's sleeping." Lana shakes her head fondly. "She's been losing her mind worrying about you. I promised I'd wake her up when you came around, but she's pretty passed out and I'm not sure I can." 

"Wanna see her." Drugged and injured as he is, Lana knows Cyril's stubborn streak won't let him rest until she makes it happen, so she thinks fast and pulls a mirror out of her purse. She holds it up for Cyril, adjusting the angle until he can see Pam in the next bed. 

"See? Sleeping like a baby." _Ironic, that,_ Lana thinks, now that she's had a baby and knows exactly how inaccurate that particular simile happens to be. 

Cyril's bruised face lights up as soon as he sees Pam there, and he looks at her for a long few minutes, contented. Lana's never seen that particular look on his face before; when they were together, he'd look at her with needy affection, and desperation, and often lust, but never, that she can remember, just like this. 

His eyes flick back to Lana's, questioning. "Arm?" 

"Broken," Lana says. "She'll have a cast for a little while, and she hurt her knee too, but she's basically OK other than that. She’s strong. She'll heal faster than you, probably." 

"Good," he sighs. "Thass good. Tell her… love." He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep again, still smiling.

“I will,” she whispers to him, even though he’s beyond listening. “I will.” 

***

"Goddamn, dude. Is this really all we get for breakfast? It's like they're tryin' to starve us!" Pam pokes at the hospital food with dismay, and looks up at Lana. "Any chance I could bribe ya to smuggle in some breakfast burritos or somethin'? Please?" 

"I… don't think they'll let me do that," Lana says. "But I bet they'll let you out today, so we can go grab some real food somewhere after that." 

Pam frowns. "No way. I'm _not_ leavin’ this hospital till Cyril wakes up. Not even for real food."

"Wow. You really do love me." His voice, still raspy and weak, is full of amusement and love. Pam shrieks with joy, and tries to launch herself across the room, momentarily forgetting about her own injuries. By the time Lana helps Pam out of bed, she's learned several new and extremely inventive uses of the word "fuck," and Cyril's trying his best not to laugh. 

"Hey, darlin'," he says, smiling faintly up at her when she finally reaches his bedside. "I love you." 

Pam manages to beam at him, choke out an "I love you too," and take his near hand in a death grip before falling completely apart. Lana steps out to give them some privacy for their reunion, and to hide her own happy tears, and texts Archer. 

_No doubt now. Definitely in love for real._

_Never would have guessed those two would end up together. Insane._

_Less insane than literally anything else that’s ever happened where we work._

_Touché._

When she comes back in, they’re still gazing at each other all starry-eyed, but Pam turns to look at Lana. “OK, back me up here. He doesn’t believe me.” 

“Believe you about what?”

“He hasn’t shaved in like three days, and I’m tellin’ him he shouldn’t.” Pam turns back to Cyril, running her good hand up and down his cheek. “Check out this scruff - it’s totally hot! You’d look bangin’ with a beard!” 

Cyril huffs at her, but he’s smiling. “Don’t make me laugh. It still hurts.” 

Lana’s never really thought about it, but now that Pam points it out… “Actually… I think she’s right. It looks good on you.” 

“Really?” His voice rises, touched; Lana remembers it now, the wholehearted way he takes the smallest compliment. It always hits him deep, full of hope but not quite ready to believe it’s genuine. It’s the reaction of a man who hasn’t had many in his life, and Lana suspects he won’t have that reaction much longer if Pam has anything to say about it. 

Cyril’s saved from any further discussion of his facial hair or lack thereof by the nurse, who bustles in to check on him. “Looking good this morning!” she chirps. “Your color’s much better, and the X-rays came out fine so we can take this collar off you at least.” She pulls aside his hospital gown, and Lana gasps at the sight of his battered body, his chest mottled a deep black with bruising and a large bandage up the left side of his stomach. 

“Jesus, Cyril! It looks like the truck hit you instead of the car!”

“Feels like it, too,” he quips. “Guess we’ll have to find a tattoo place when I get out of here.” 

“Oh, my God!” Pam whoops. “You’re right! I totally forgot!” She collapses, wheezing with laughter.

Lana’s totally mystified, looking back and forth between them with wide eyes. “Cyril, what the shit? _You,_ of all people, want a _tattoo?_ Somebody want to fill me in here?” 

Pam takes pity on Lana and decides to explain, although she’s still giggling. “My tally marks, on my back, ya know? They’re all for the crashes I walked away from. So now I need a new one, and Cyril’s earned his first one.” 

“Well, technically, I guess it should be my second,” Cyril corrects her. “That crash I had in the jungle in Colombia with Archer and Ray was pretty bad. And maybe my third, if you count the space shuttle crash…”

“Oh, yeah! And I had that one in Rome with Lana and Archer and Woodhouse and the Pope, so I guess I need three new ones, countin' the space shuttle…”

“Wow. I had no idea,” Lana says. “Archer and I always thought they were for kills.”

“Waaaaait a minute.” Pam’s jaw drops. “You thought _I’d_ killed thirteen people?” 

“Well, honestly? After we saw you break that kidnapper’s neck that time, and found out about the underground fighting, and the drift racing, and all that, we …kinda just assumed you were pretty deadly.” 

“ _… Awesome._ ” 

Her face lights up, and if Cyril’s sore neck would let him, he’d shake his head. “Only you, darlin’, would take that as a compliment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my headcanon for the meaning of Pam's tally marks... I figured they aren't for kills since we saw her kill at least one guy (the kidnapper) on-screen, but every time we see her tattoo after that it still has the same number of marks. It's entirely possible I think about this way too much.


	6. California

“So, I found you guys a ride to LA,” Lana says quietly; Cyril’s sleeping again, and she doesn’t want to wake him. “I have to get back myself, before Archer enrolls AJ in baby bartending school or something, but Krieger said he can come pick you up in his van once Cyril gets discharged.” 

Pam gives her the biggest hug she can manage with one arm. “Thank you so, so much. For comin’ to see us, and gettin’ us a ride, and everything.” 

“Least I could do. I’m just happy you’re both gonna be OK.” Lana checks her phone and smiles. “Archer says hi too, and he says to tell Cyril that Malory’s gonna take over the corner office if Cyril doesn’t get his ass out of the hospital ASAP.” 

“Oh, _hell_ no. I’ll fly to LA and whup her skinny old ass one-handed if I have to. That office is reserved for my man.” Pam makes a fist, grinning at Lana. “Malory’s finally gonna give him some respect if I have to beat it into her.” 

Lana cocks her head, eyeing Pam searchingly. “You know, I never would have predicted this, but in some weird-ass way, it totally works.” 

“Me and him, ya mean?”

“I think you just might be what he’s needed all along. He’s always been attracted to strong, powerful women, but you… you support him, build him up. You have his back no matter what, and knowing that gives him the strength to stand up for himself too. Me… I think I just broke him down.” She looks a little wistful, but Pam knows it’s not because she’d go back and change things if she could; after all, it’s at least partly her doing that Pam and Cyril are together at all. “But I have to ask… what do _you_ get out of it? Is he as goddamn needy with you as he always was with me?”

Pam’s more intrigued than offended by Lana’s nosy question, having given the matter considerable thought herself. “It’s… different, somehow. He’s always super affectionate with me, but not, like, clingy and desperate. I can tell he needs me, like ya said, but I think the difference is, he knows I need him too.” She looks over at his hospital bed, her face softening. “I’m not as tough as everybody thinks, ya know. He makes me feel safe and… and grounded when I don’t know which way’s up. And he thinks I’m beautiful, and he totally adores me, and oh, my _God,_ the sex is _incredible..._ ” 

“ _Nooooope._ ” Lana holds up a hand and smirks. “I’m gonna stop you right there. I do _not_ need that information.” 

***

"Heyyyyy!" Penny bolts out of the van as soon as it stops, flinging herself at Pam for a hug. She's all brightness in the desert sun, copper hair flying, and Pam finds herself grinning back; she's missed Penny.

"Hey, kid! Thanks for comin' all this way to pick up our sorry asses." 

"Least we could do. I'm so sorry I had to miss your wedding!" Penny’s face darkens, and she jerks her head toward the van as Krieger emerges. "And _this_ one's sorry about his ridiculous excuse for a wedding gift. Or at least he should be."

"It's OK! I figured you couldn't have known what he was up to... I thought it was pretty funny, actually. I think Cyril was kinda horrified though." Pam laughs, patting her on the shoulder. 

"Still. We had words." 

"Hello, Pam," Krieger says, looking slightly guilty. Penny glares up at him, and he sighs, head drooping. "I'm sorry about the video thing. Penny told me it was a bad idea." 

"Really, Krieger. It's OK, I promise. I'm not mad." 

"Oh, good! Then let me tell you what I've been working on since we got to LA..." 

Fortunately, Penny doesn't get the chance to explode at him; just then Cyril's wheeled out by a nurse, and Krieger and Penny both gasp. Pam has a sneaking suspicion it's a gasp of delight on Krieger's part, and his next words prove it.

"Cyril, my friend! If you’re paralyzed now, you won't be for long! I've really made some improvements to the design I used for Ray!" 

"Hate to disappoint you, Krieger, but I'm not paralyzed," Cyril says, standing up and leaving the wheelchair behind. "It's just hospital policy." 

Krieger's look of disappointment is almost comical, and Pam has to laugh, especially when she learns the reason for Penny's own gasp. "Oh, my God, the beard!" she squeaks, punching Pam softly in the ribs and bouncing on her toes a little. "He looks so _cute_ with it!" 

"I know ya have a thing for beards, but hands off this one, OK? You’ve got your own." Pam laughs at her, and turns to Cyril, hugging him gently. He's in much better shape now than he was a few days ago, but he'll still be recovering for a while yet. 

"Hey, honey," she says. "Our taxi awaits, so let's get the hell outta here! Oh, and by the way, the vote in favor of the beard is now 3 to 1." 

"Don't I get a vote?" Krieger pipes up. 

"Nope, sorry. As the owner of a beard, you're clearly biased," Penny shoots back, winking at Pam. 

***

"It's about five hours from here to LA, so I brought some tunes," Penny says. 

"Oh, yay!" Pam claps, excited. "Most of our CDs got smashed in the car wreck, so I was hoping you guys'd have something."

"Well... the selection's a little limited, but the sound system's killer! Hope you like Rush, and if you don't, I think I've got some Hip in here somewhere." 

"No offense, Krieger, but it's pretty much Rush all the time whenever we're in here, so let's have the other one," Cyril suggests. He's not a fan of Rush, generally, but he's not about to say anything snotty when Krieger's been nice enough to come all the way to Vegas to pick them up. 

Penny beams, obviously having hoped that would win the vote, and rummages around in the console between the seats until she finds what she's looking for. "Yes! One of my favorites!" She holds up a CD in triumph, and a few seconds later, it's booming through the speakers. The subwoofer shakes the whole van, and Pam's smile grows until Cyril thinks she's having a religious experience. 

"Holy shitsnacks!" she yells over the music. "That bass line is bangin' - I gotta learn it! Once I have two workin’ arms again, anyway. What's this song called?"

"New Orleans Is Sinking," Penny calls back. "One of their first big hits." 

"Wait a minute. You play bass?" Cyril wonders how long he'll have to be married to Pam before she stops surprising him. _Hopefully never,_ he thinks. 

"Yeah, and guitar! I played on Cherlene's album, but I guess ya missed most of that, tryin' to manage the coke and the money and all." He didn't think it was possible for her to look any more excited, but again, she surprises him; her face lights up even more and she bounces in her seat. "Oh, my God! I just had the _best_ idea!" 

"I'm almost afraid to ask..."

"When we get to LA..." She pauses for dramatic effect, then squeals. "We can start a band!!! I'll teach ya how to play bass - it's pretty easy - and then I can play guitar, Krieger can drum, and everybody but me can sing. It's perfect. I don't know why I never thought of it before." 

Cyril just looks at her for a second, torn between groaning at the idea and appreciating her enthusiasm. He opts for door number three, and leans over and locks his lips with hers. He knows full well she does the same thing sometimes to shut him up, and he figures turnabout's more than fair play when it comes to kissing. After all, nobody loses in that scenario.

***

_Three days later…_

They pull into the parking space marked “Reserved for CEO,” and Cyril’s heart starts pounding. He glances sideways at Pam, all the old fears and insecurities roaring back. “Do you… do you really think I can do this?” 

She squeezes his hand, nothing in her eyes but complete trust and love. “I do, honey. We didn’t just drive all the way across the country and nearly frickin’ die, just to go back to what used to be. This is a brand new start for all of us. A new life. And you’re gonna kick ass at it.” 

Cyril takes a deep breath and steps out of their new car, and Pam comes around to meet him. She pulls him down for a kiss, and when he shows signs of lingering into it, she gives him a sharp slap on the ass. “Ready, Boss?” she says, grinning at him. 

He squares his shoulders, and starts to smile. “Hmmm. I like the sound of that.” 

“Then let’s get in there and show ‘em what you’re really made of.” 

“Only if you promise to have my back while I do it,” he says, looking at her like he can’t quite believe she’s real. 

Pam smiles to herself, remembering. “No matter what.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. :-)
> 
> Here's [New Orleans Is Sinking](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZaeEopDW0V4), one of my favorite Tragically Hip songs. It does, indeed, have a bangin' bass line.


End file.
